


Difficult decisions (or 'the alphas made me do it')

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Development, Friendship, Gen, INDEFINITE HIATUS, Pack Dad Derek, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Werewolf Bites, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, arguments and bitching, there are no mature adults here, this story took on a life of its own...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As far as rescue plans go, this had to have been one of the worst he'd been a part of in a while. And it was all his idea. </i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Otherwise known as 'the alphas made me do it'. A throw-back to the events of season 3A, breaking off from the canon at the beginning of 3B. Derek’s dealings with the alphas doesn’t go quite as smoothly as expected, and Stiles’ finds himself in a tight spot. This is character and relationship exploration in its purest form, with a healthy slab of drama and a sprinkling of crack. Indefinite hiatus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alphas made me do it

**Author's Note:**

> I'm instigating a new policy, where I only post new chapters after they have been run through my beta at least _twice_. This _hints_ at the happenings of 3A, but diverges sharply after the end of the season, with only a few allusions to 3B. There will be no spoilers for 3B, I can promise you that.

In the case of Stiles (or Stilinski, first name rarely mentioned and _never_ correctly pronounced), there are only a select few people he would consider sacrificing his life for. There was Lydia, and Scott, of course - sometimes Jackson, probably Danny, almost definitely Allison, despite the whole _gramps-tried-to-kill-me_ thing - but the point is, Stiles is damn selective. Yet somehow, at some point, a certain asshole must have wriggled his way onto the list - without the awareness or permission of the list's founder, mind.

It must be true then, that if you risk your own life enough times for someone, you grow to care for them. Even if the dislike you bear for each other is mutual.

That is the only explanation Stiles can come up with for where he finds himself now, a trembling mess as he places himself at Derek's feet, the sharp points of his canines pressing against his skin. Derek’s jaw is in a vice, tightly controlled by the alphas on either side, and it is all too reminiscent of the hunters, and the gruesome, untimely end of Gerard Argent, but Stiles can't afford to think about that, now. It's too late, anyway. 

A brilliant flash of red at the edge of his sight signals that Derek is finally awake, and - _fuck_. Stiles could really do without his input at the moment, not when he is putting his own life on the line - again - to save the stupid wolf. A growl at his periphery pushes him forward, reminding him that he really doesn’t have the time or leisure to hesitate, even as Derek releases a weak, trembling growl of his own. He's visibly fighting his way back to consciousness, and Stiles is out of time. 

Biting down on his lip, ignoring the metallic taste as it bleeds, Stiles takes the plunge, closing Derek’s jaws around his wrist.

And, _fuck_ , it hurts.

They let him go, let the both of them go, sending Stiles stumbling backwards, caught off balance. He trips, unable to catch himself before he makes contact with the floor, only to be pulled back at the last second by a hand around his wrist - the same wrist. He can't help but let out a cry as another lash of pain sears through him, and his vision flickers, darkness lurching at the edges of his sight. It - it hurts, so much more than he thought it would. God, he hopes he's not dying. 

The alphas have mostly retreated by the time it takes his vision to clear - although he can still see their grins of victory in his minds eyes, the sadistic bastards - and using the grip on his wrist, Derek pulls him jaggedly closer, putting his body between Stiles and the vanishing threat. Stiles barely notices when he collides against his chest, or even distinguish between the different types of pain, as his heartbeat begins to skyrocket, and his skin feels as if it's been stretched too tightly over his frame, and _oh shit_ , he really didn't think this was going to happen this quickly.

Please, please don't let this kill him. This was supposed to be the safer option, the one with the least loss of life -- if Stiles could survive it, if he could beat the odds, so Derek wouldn't be forced to explain to his father that it had been _his_ bite- 

A weak hand grasps at the back of his head, pulling him back to the present as he meets the shock of crimson that mark Derek’s eyes, shadowed with the echoes of pain and confusion, and yeah. Stiles feels as if that's understandable, under the circumstances.

_“Stiles..?”_

His voice is a husk of what it normally is - which can be attributed to the damage he had sustained to his vocal chords earlier, which, you know, having your throat torn out _would do._

“Hey, big guy.” Stiles forces his features into a semblance of a smile, although he can barely feel his own face right now, and from the expression Derek's wearing, Stiles doesn't think he quite manages it. That, or someone _else_ Derek knows has just died an awful, painful death, and _ouch_ , that thought was going to sting him for days. “It was this or, you know, they killed you. And, hey, I couldn’t force Scott to do it. You weren’t – supposed to wake up.”

Derek ignores the last part of the statement, all of the statement actually, the colour of his eyes fading as he chooses instead to _stare,_ and to spite him, Stiles' eyes instead trace the edges of the wounds that glimmer from the shredded remains of Derek’s shirt, taking the easy way out instead of meeting that gaze. They look raw, painful, but he notes with some measure of relief that they aren't as life-threatening as they had appeared earlier.

After a moment, there is the sound of Derek clearing his throat, his voice coming stronger this time.

“That was… you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t, you _shouldn’t_ , you- what about Scott? Your father? You – this could _kill you-”_

Breaking away from his examination, Stiles shoots him a dirty look, or as much of a dirty look as he could manage, squinting through the pain that has turned the world into a blurry mess. “As if I didn't think this through. I would die anyway. I just- don’t have the strength. Trust me, I’ve thought about this. Being human just doesn’t quite cut it anymore. And then who would help you lot out of all of those scrapes?”

He doesn’t look at Derek’s face, already knowing what he would find – a dark and angry combination of furrowed brow and teeth – and frankly, the pain is really getting to him, the stars that had been dancing along the corner of his vision clustering and conspiring to blind him entirely, and he has difficulty keeping his balance on the slanting floor. He stumbles, and in the end, the ground tilts up to meet him anyway, and with his strength leaving him, he surrenders himself to its hard, unforgiving embrace, as it’d just be the perfect way to end a really shitty day.

Although he never does quite reach it, as large hands grasp him by the shoulders, bringing him up, up and away from the promise of pain on the concrete of the warehouse floor.

“I still don’t understand – _why.”_

 _But that’s the easy part._ Stiles wants to say. Instead, he attempts a grin - and probably fails at anything more passable than a pained grimace with the deepening creases of the frown that mars Derek’s features. Sucking in a breath, Stiles croaks out what he can through his clenched teeth. Really, what would the pack do without him around to do all the research and explain everything?

“They assume you’re like them. That once you’ve got a taste for – for-” Stiles almost chokes, but forces the words past his lips anyway, although he isn’t sure how legible he is anyway, as his lips are trembling, his whole body is trembling,“- _killing_ , that you will need more. More prey - more _pack_. So… here I am.”

His voice trembles on the last bit, wavering as he tries to struggle together enough consciousness to stay upright, or hell, even finish this conversation… but he can tell it is a losing battle, as his vision is actually blacking out now, and he can’t even feel his legs. The pain is gone now, at least. Which is odd, now that he thinks about it.

Then again, that would explain why Derek’s hands are wrapped tightly around his arm and the back of his neck, the heat of the contact searing against his skin.

“Those alphas really are bat-shit crazy if they thought making _me_ a wolf was going to a good idea.”

“Stiles… don’t. No more talking. Just…”

Derek never finishes his sentence, his grip tightening on Stiles’ neck, and Stiles’ responds silently: _gladly._ It’s getting harder to talk, anyway, harder to do anything really, except think about whether or not this will even work, and how much this would kill his dad if it didn’t. After a few seconds, it was too much to do even that, and, Stiles -

Stiles stops thinking altogether.


	2. Avoiding the issue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that an inkling of plot I see?

When Stiles wakes up, his limbs are heavy with sleep, but the pain is gone. In fact, aside from the lethargy that drags at his consciousness - making it difficult for him to even _think,_ let alone move _-_ he doesn't feel at all different from usual. He's warm and comfortable, surrounded by the scent of fresh linen and detergent, and he spends a few moment indulging in the comfortable place just before waking, as if this is just another average, lazy weekend morning in the Stilinski household, where getting out of bed before midday is illegal.

When he remembers the events of the night before - well. There's nothing like a flood of adrenaline to serve as an adequate wake up call.  
  
His first instinct is to grab at the bite mark - despite the fact that that would be another Stilinski stupid idea,considering the fact that it was (and still should be) an open wound. His muscles lock up, from stress or panic, he can't tell, and for a moment he hopes - prays- that the glimpses of the events he's beginning to recall from the night before were just dreams, another night-terror in a series of _shitty_ nights that had been plaguing him since the Nemeton. It would explain the pounder of a headache that's looming threateningly at the edges of his thoughts, and the exhaustion that he can feel within his limbs -- and really, it's the simplest, most logical explanation.

But it can't explain the rough material of a bandage his trembling fingers encounter when they reach his forearm, and just like that, his hope for a reprieve - however brief - is gone. Wasting no time, he searches for the knot, nails clawing at the material until his nails rip through the bandage, and his fingertips smooth along unbroken skin, sticky with sweat and accompanied by the copper tang of blood.

It's all the confirmation he needs to assert that _yes_ , beyond all plausible doubt, this was _not_ a dream.

His hands shake as he skates them aimlessly along his unblemished skin, trying to gather his thoughts.

 _Fuck_.  
  
At least he's not dead.

He doesn't know what the signs of a rejected bite are - has been lucky enough never to see one of his friends suffer that fate, although it'd been close with Lydia - but there are still some things that Stiles is still trying to wrap his head around. The bite on his arm is _healed._ The puncture marks on Scott - and really, what sort of supernatural fuckery is this, where an immortal disease is only communicable by a _bite?_ \- had taken longer to heal, roughly twelve hours, not the four or so that Stiles had been out.

They _were_ deeper, though, and less precise. Overdone, really, if he had to describe them - which could easily be evidence of Peter's inherent cruel streak -but he can tell when he's about to spiral off into a tangent, so he ends this line of thought there.

What worries him the most is how little he remembers of the night before.

He needs to think. _Think._ It takes a while to focus - he must have missed a dose of Adderall - but he perseveres, and eventually it comes back to him, in  flashes of concrete and corrugated iron and flashing, crimson eyes _._ Followed by pain, obviously, than a suspicious lack of it - the alphas had let go after the bite, dropping Stiles' dead weight to the floor - but Stiles can't remember his collision with the concrete, can't remember what happened next, whether Derek got out of there or fought the twins as soon as they loosened their grip.

He doesn't remember coming home. That thought alone scares him more than anything else, and the tension that had been steadily winding within his chest tightens with an abrupt twist that leaves him gasping for breath.

He tries to remember how to breathe. There is a deep-seated thrumming within his chest, his heart vibrating against his ribs, and he takes another breath, critically aware that there is nobody here who can help distract him, and he needs to stop the panic attack before it happens. He needs to distract himself, with something - anything - and he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the dimness of the light as he examines the faint outline of an unfamiliar room.

Is it unfamiliar, though?

There is something about those windows and the iron that lines them, the cavernous feel of the room that seems  _familiar_ , but he can't say he has ever set foot in this place with this big of a bed before. He starts skimming through memories of odd rooms and houses he's been in or seen, scanning for key, identifying features, and eventually his breathing slows, and he feels more like himself again.

Clenching his hands together on top of his chest, Stiles takes a look at the facts.

He is in an undisclosed location, possible infected with a were-virus that will turn him into an uncontrollable creature of instinct – which is a bad,  _bad_ idea for someone with attention-deficit disorder and a predisposition for anxiety attacks _._ He is also _alone-_ which means the very person he was doing this for, the person he was trying to  _save,_ is AWOL, possibly - _probably_ , a treacherous voice inside him whispers - dead.

As far as rescue plans go, this had to have been one of the worst he'd been a part of in a while.

And it was all his idea.

_Stiles, you're a fucking idiot._

To be fair on himself, though, what was he _supposed_ to have done? When the twins - he hadn't bothered learning their names, and as they apparently shifted into one person anyway, it wasn't even necessary - had come up to him and offered to return their missing alpha, he had known it was suspicious, but he had gone anyway. When they had, surprise surprise, revealed that they expected something in return, Stiles hadn't seen any other options.

And this was the best option, really, all things were considered. They were lucky to have gotten Derek back in the first place, and with the alphas hope resting on the idea that with Boyd's death, Derek would turn into a pack-killing-machine, well, it was their hubris.  
  
Derek had been half-dead when Stiles had arrived at the old warehouse. He had thought that Peter - who had been trailing him since he had returned from whatever  _road trip_ he and Derek had taken, and had actually informed him in the first place that Derek was _missing -_ would follow him in, but he had apparently given up, either knowing what he was about to do, or predicting it. For that, Stiles' was glad - as he really didn't want to see the smug little smirk on that bastard's face, anyway.  
  
And at first, the plan had seemed a good one. The twins were alone, and even with double the head space, they didn't amount to much brain power between them, and it was their plan, their move. More of a desperate, last-ditch attempt, than anything - but while they were pack-less, the red gleams of their eyes proved that they were not defenseless as they once were. Alphas can recharge, which was something he didn't think _anyone_ knew, least of all _Derek_ , who had looked as surprised as anything when he'd found himself fang-deep in Stiles' arm.

He was going to ensure that little nugget of information was common knowledge, to be used when deciding the fate and treatment of future foes. And while he was on the topic of the future, he is also instigating a double-tap policy. You know, to ensure that the bad guys actually  _stay_ dead.

He snorts into the quiet of the room, the sound echoing hollowly in the space, serving as a reminder that he's here, and not home. His phone - his phone was  _dead_ , had been ever since he had taken off for the warehouse - and maybe he should have done more than text Scott that he'd be studying all weekend and his dad that he'd be at Scott's (the conflicting stories  _alone_ should have been enough of a deterrent) - but with the nightmares that had kept him up a night post-Nemeton, Stiles had been half-convinced that he was _dreaming_ this.

As Derek had left, with Cora and Peter, and had given no indication of wanting to return. And with all the shit that had gone down in the last few weeks, Stiles couldn't - _wouldn't_ \- blame him if he never bothered coming back at all.

Between Derek back and Stiles half-mad, Stiles can almost trick himself into believing that this is all an hallucination, and any minute he'd wake up in his bed, arms tangled up in the knots of his sheets.

Besides, Stiles had had reasons - good ones, at that, not just excuses for his poor decisions - for keeping this on the down low. Reasons that concern Scott's recent transformation into a _'true alpha',_ and with things like _control_ , and not _turning into an insane monster_ a _nd tearing the inhabitants of Beacon Hills to shreds._ Scott had too much on his plate to deal with any more drama involving the melodramatic twins and their _death threats_ now.

But maybe he should have told Scott.

Maybe he should call Scott _now,_ but... Stiles doesn't feel ready to deal with all of this, yet.

He brings the sheets closer to his head, burrowing back down beneath the blankets and as he cradles his head between his hands, he decides he likes the sound of that. _Ignoring the problem._ Maybe he'll be ready to deal with it in a couple more hours.


	3. Anchors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, as I am officially on break, but for a final year msci student, that means field research and exam prep. (An _actual_ break? What's that?)

At some point he must have fallen asleep, as he finds himself waking again a few hours later, although this time he is not alone. That’s the first thought that crosses his mind, before his nose is twitching, and he can  _smell him_ , a warm, earthy scent, and the pungent stink of leather softened by heat and age. It’s distinct, and unmistakable, and Stiles focuses on that, on the textures and layers of that scent, rather than the feeling of otherness he is beginning to feel itching beneath his skin.

Derek.

The scent, he realizes, is everywhere. It’s in the pillow beneath his head, the soft material beneath his chin, a bubble of familiarity surrounding him and cushioning him, and he takes comfort in it, stretching his fingers to dig them into the sheets.

“How do you feel?”

Derek’s voice breaks into his thoughts, his tone terse and strained and so much  _more complex_ than he had ever noticed before. He could tell, for instance, that Derek hadn’t slept much – his vocal chords wound tight, stress giving his voice a coarse edge; but his words had that bit of a _slur_ at the edges that indicated his exhaustion.

It's little wonder, as this is _definitely_ Derek's loft; he can see the iron railings in the corner that frame the top of the metal staircase that led down to the floor below, hear the sounds of the city and the highway outside, muffled by the other highrises that surround them. He takes in another breath, and he can almost _taste_ the scent of other people, other _wolves -_ he can even smell the grease of the Thai take-out currently sitting in the fridge.

It’s a sensory overload, and it takes him a minute to remember the question buried amidst of it all.

 _Right_. How  _does_ he feel?

He glances down at his hands, which have curled up again into the bed sheets, and he is momentarily fascinated by the tears they've left in the fabric.

Awake. Aware. Alive.

 _Terrified_.

The sound that Derek makes is choked at the back of throat as he crosses the room in three neat strides, snatching Stiles’ hands from the bed and gripping them tightly. His nails have elongated into thin, deadly things, which Derek presses against with the pads of his thumbs, easing them back below the surface.

“ _Stiles_. Stop ruining my sheets.” He leans closer to Stiles, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep lung-full of air, before he is pushing himself forward into Stiles' personal space, bringing his face closer, intrusive and demanding of all of his focus and attention. “ _Control_ _it._ "

He wants to snort at that, but he _can't_ , and Derek presses closer, smoothing his grip along his arms and shoulders, palming his neck until he had Stiles' face cradled between his palms. His skin burns with a heat that _can't_ be human, and it is distracting - in a good way, tearing Stiles away from the suffocating pressure slowly building within his chest cavity.

"Try to slow your breathing, your heart rate. Here - focus on mine.” He shifts closer abruptly, grip swapping back to Stiles' hands as he grabs them from the sheets and places them against his chest. Stiles makes a noise, one that he can’t quite categorise as he tries to pull his hands away, but Derek holds onto them tightly, pressing them insistently against his chest, and Stiles can feel the thump of his heart, sure and steady, underneath his palms. He tries to match the rhythm and steady his breathing, but he can't seem to catch hold of his breath.

He is _trying_ , but this is a thousand times easier  _said than done,_ but Derek seems to get that. He backs down, giving Stiles a few inches of space and loosening his grip around his wrists. He pauses, then, hovering half-on-half-off the bed, but Stiles looks at him,  _asking,_ and he leans back in, settling a hand against his shoulder. It’s firm, although its placement is careful, the touch a burning brand that he can't ignore. It anchors Stiles to the present, and for that, he is grateful.

“You’re nearly there.”

He breathes deep, long, slow breaths, a guide that is easy to follow, and it is not long until their breathing patterns match and Derek shifts, easing onto the bed beside him. Stiles thinks he's going to remove his hand, but then he doesn't, and it just... stays. It's comforting, and it makes Stiles feel safe, more so than he has in a long time.

Stiles doesn't quite know how to feel about that, and he's not one to dwell, so he moves on, focusing on his hands - human, again - where they lay idly within his lap. He can no longer feel his claws pinching at his skin, and as he examines the crescent of dried blood on his fingers, he sees his fingertips have healed without a mark. He expected that.

What he  _didn't_ expect what how much the whole schtick _hurt_. Stiles has had the wrong impression about werewolf abilities, apparently - it's not that werewolves don't feel the pain of the change - as they  _feel it_ , that much he was clear on, now - they just have a higher threshold for it, and the scars fade.

It brings back memories of Scott chained to the radiator, wrists rubbed raw against the metal cuffs; of Boyd chained against the rusted door of the dilapidated train car; Erica's metal collar, screwed in tightly through her hairline and bolted into the bone -  and he scrambles for another subject to focus on, _anything_ other than dead classmates and friends -- _pack mates_. 

He turns to Derek, who hasn't moved once since he had taken his place at his side, his eyes steady on his face. He seems to be waiting for Stiles to say something, do something, every aspect of his expression guarded, but Stiles just wants a change of subject, a change of pace. He fills the silence with a hum to distract himself, searching his mind for a topic,  _anything,_ blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

"You've gotten better at this whole 'alpha' thing, did you know that?"  
  
It's not what he had been expecting to say - hell, he doesn't even know where that _came_ from - but he still relishes the feeling of triumph he gets when a flicker of surprise crosses Derek's features, breaking through the mask of tension that he always seems to carry. He looks younger -  _years_ younger - as his mouth falls open briefly before clicking shut, at a loss for words.

After a few awkward moments of silence, something complicated crosses Derek's face,  and he turns away from Stiles to face the opposite wall. His hand tightens briefly from where it grips Stiles’ shoulder, an anchor in an overwhelming sea of sensation, before finally dropping away.  
  
"I had an opportunity to talk to someone who knew what they were doing."

Stiles watches him, takes in the harsh lines of his profile, the jumping muscles within his tensed jaw line. He doesn't know what that means, and he isn't sure if he should ask - something in the stiffness of his expression, the brittle edge to it, as if it was a single tap away from shattering into a million pieces, says he shouldn't.

In the end it doesn't matter, as just as Stiles has gathered up the nerve to ask _what_  exactly had Derek been doing when he left Beacon Hills, Derek’s eyes flick back to him, bleeding red in the half light. Anything Stiles would have been about to say gets stuck at the back of his throat.  
  
"You never answered my question, Stiles." Derek's voice is a low and dangerous growl that Stiles, strangely, has no problem deciphering; tinged with anger and threat, and - if Stiles is not mistaken, and he would be willing to concede to that on this point - _regret_. "What the hell was that last night?"

The sudden change of subject throws him. There is an accusation there, one that knocks the air out of him like a sucker punch to the gut, and he's not quite sure how he feels about being the one given the blame.  _For saving his life._ Derek's growl gets louder and deeper, which Stiles ignores in favour of narrowing his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest - as, hey, two can play at the intimidation game - before Derek pushes forward, arms bracing on either side of Stiles as he shoved onto his back, and Derek is there, just inches above him.

Stiles does _not_ yelp. In fact, he doesn't make any sound _at all_ , as at some point during this whole ordeal he had been rendered mute, and all he can do is stare up at Derek as he brackets himself around him, caging him in place.

He can't seem to escape Derek's eyes. It feels as if the alpha within Derek is close to the surface, closer than it has ever been anywhere around Stiles, and it makes something within Stiles shrink back; makes him want to stick his tail beneath his legs and roll over. It's a ridiculous,  _ridiculous_ feeling - this is  _Derek;_ broody, murderous-without-actually-killing-anyone _Derek -_ and Stiles fights against it stubbornly, baring his teeth in a snarl. Derek bares his own, aspects of the change making itself evident on his features.

"That was - _stupid_. More stupid than usual for you. _What were you thinking?_ "

Stiles is reacting without even meaning to, responding to new instincts he can barely  _understand_ , and before he can even think about it, his nails are lengthening again, biting into the skin of his palm. He's torn between two mindsets - submission, or fighting against his alpha - and its not _human_ , not _safe_. _He doesn't want this_. He opens his mouth to speak again, trying to force the words out, but Derek eyes flash, which Stiles is beginning to realise is Derek pulling  _rank,_ and he can't get out a  _consonant._

He manages what sounds like a whine though, although you could never get Stiles to admit to it, and Derek seems to break out of whatever daze he's fallen into, his expression surprised when he glances down between between his arms and finds Stiles there.

He pushes away, turning to pace down the short length of his loft, his arms twisting back to anchor themselves behind his head.  
  
"Shit, Stiles. It could have killed you. It may not have taken, and killed you - and probably should have killed you, for your _stupidity_. Then, I-" His voice chokes off in his throat, and his pacing ends as abruptly as it started, leaving Stiles staring at his back as he faces the opposite wall." I would have had to explain it to your father. And to your friends."

He breaks off, a hand running through his hair, tugging agitatedly at the roots before he twists himself back to face Stiles. His expression has finally shifted into something resembling  _emotions_ , scathing and angry as he catches Stiles gaze from the opposite side of the loft, and his lips twist into a bitter smile.

" _Really_ , Stiles. If you wanted the - _the bite_  - then why didn’t you just accept it from Peter when he offered it to you?”

Something in Stiles breaks at the mention of Peter.

The change is upon him before he makes it off the bed, the sheets beneath his hands shredding at the touch of his claws as a roar tears its way out of his throat. Something that may be regret flickers across Derek's face, but its brief and quickly masked as he lets out a responding growl, jaw twisting as his features morph into the familiar face of the wolf _._

There's a fight coming, and something within Stiles embraces it, _lusts_ for it in the flurry of sensation and emotion that course through his veins. Anger, _fear_ , submission, _power -_ they all fight for dominance, and he can barely focus _at the best of times_ without his Adderall, this sudden rush wreaking havoc on his already tenuous control.

He _can't_ maintain his control _._ His fangs are emerging; he can feel them as they slice through his gums and stab at his skin.

He feels trapped between a rock and a hard place _._

So he takes the window.

Literally,  _takes_  the window, vaulting himself through the glass and clawing his way down however-many-stories there are in Derek’s apartment block, until he breaks away into the night, ignoring the snarling roar he can feel behind him.


	4. Control

He's not thinking about anything other than the concrete beneath his feet, the whistle of the wind in his ears as he makes his way further into the abandoned warehouse district of post-industrial Beacon Hills. He needs to put more distance between himself and Derek's apartment - as much as possible, to ensure that he doesn't do something stupid like turn back and attempt to _tear Derek's face off_. 

He's experiencing the beginning stages of a panic attack, his emotions a volatile, writhing mass of anger and anxiety, when he realises he's approaching the highway -- and for the first time since his feet hit the ground outside Derek's apartment, Stiles' pace falters. 

He can hear the sound of tires on tarmac, the clunk of metal as speeding vehicles take the ramp to the main carriageway fast enough to send the metal structure shaking. He knows these streets, having spent hours walking the alleys around Derek's apartment, memorizing possible choke points and the easiest routes to escape.

If he reaches the highway in the state he's currently in, there's no telling what the damage he would cause, especially when he hit civilization. 

_Fuck._

From there, it doesn't take him long to come to a decision. Turning his back to the sounds of civilization, he makes his way back into the tangle of alleys and abandoned warehouses.

\--

The route he takes is complicated, taking full advantage of the darkness and his head start to lose himself amongst the winding alleys, and make it as difficult to find as possible. He's lucky that the weather is with him - strong winds that blew from nearly every direction, which would make scent tracking impossible.

He's not prepared to call this a 'win' just yet, though, as he has yet to actually make it out of the warehouse district. Derek could be waiting for him around the next corner for all he'd know, a seething mass of anger, teeth and claws.

Stiles waits until he finds a deserted alleyway a good distance from any sign of habitation before finally drawing to a stop, and he spends the next fifteen minutes picking the glass out of his forearms, brushing fragments from his ratty hoodie - which had been one of his favourites, but was now practically useless, the tattered fabric barely working to keep out the chill from the night air. Not that he feels it much. If anything, that was a definite plus of lycanthropy: he'd never be cold again. 

The presence of the moon is a weighted pressure against his skin, though; heavy on his back through his clothes, urging him to lose control, and give in to the violence. He doesn't – he _won't_ , as he can't help but think of his father, and the police department, and how they'd have to deal with even more shit than usual. He _won't_ be the next problem. That thought - or maybe it is his father - is enough to anchor him, and keep the wolf beneath his skin, abating the itch that Stiles is beginning to recognise as a herald of the change.

That said, that doesn't help find the answer to the question of what Stiles can even _do._ He can't head back to the populated part of town without putting his friends and family at risk, and he has no idea if his father knows what is going on, or is out looking for him. He has no phone, no sleeves - hell, no  _shoes_ \- and it doesn't take him long - only a couple more blocks of deserted warehouses _-_ for him to admit that he may have made a mistake when he had leapt through the window of Derek’s loft.

He seems to be making a lot of those, lately.

The growl of an engine roaring into life behind him pulls him from his thoughts, making him clench his fists in a futile push against the release of his claws. He's feeling more or less in control when he moves to the side to give the vehicle room, but when he turns to glance back at it, he barely has enough time to dodge backwards to avoid a nasty sideswipe as it accelerates by and screeches to a halt a few feet ahead. He has a slew of swears primed at the tip of his tongue, but then his mind puts the association together as the driver's door slams open - it's a people carrier, which  _really_ isn't built for the amount of stress its being put under - and the owner of the vehicle steps out of the car. 

Stiles' luck has finally run out. Derek looks _pissed_.

His heart sketches a panicked rhythm against his ribcage as Derek slowly rounds the length of the car, his expression shadowed within the harsh silhouette cut by car's headlamps, and Stiles suppresses his first instinct is to turn tail and run. While he may be more than a bit scared shitless, he isn't stupid, and can recognise a lost cause when he sees one. He knows he wouldn't make it to the next block or, _hell_ , even five feet. 

Still, he's eyeing the opening of the nearest alleyway longingly when Derek finally reaches him, hands wrapping in a vice grip around his upper arms as his lips curl in a barely suppressed snarl.

"You're paying for the repairs to my apartment."

His grip is harsh around Stiles' arms, the color of his irises fluctuating between alpha red and his natural green as they glance Stiles over, lingering on the healing marks that mar his shoulders and collar bone. He manages to catch a barely audible _'stupid, so stupid!'_ muttered under Derek's breath, which he is almost positive he wouldn't have been able to hear if he was still human, before the grip on his arms tightens further, tugging him forward and towing him towards the glorified minivan.

It takes a step or two before Stiles manages to break out of whatever stupor he had fallen into and lock his muscles in place, digging his heels into the tarmac and he meets Derek stare straight on.

"You can't keep me there. I need - I want to go home."

His voice is strong, even if he falters briefly midway through - and Derek stops. His face is turned away so Stiles can't read his expression, but there's a faint tremor in the line of his shoulders, and he doesn't turn to looks at Stiles. Feeling more confident, Stiles tries again. "Please, Derek."

The next few moments happen almost too quickly for Stiles to follow. He's pulled forward sharply, sending him stumbling into the car; he manages to make a quick grab for the door and regain his balance before he sprawls on his face, but it's a close one. Derek doesn't give him a chance to recover - stepping up close and personal behind him, until Stiles can feel his body heat like a burning brand against his back, and Derek's hands wrap once more around his arms. Stiles' position reversed, Derek uses his grip to pull his arms back until he can grip both of his wrists in one hand, his hands restraining but gentle as Derek places the other firmly between Stiles' shoulder blades, holding him in place. 

"I'm trying to help you."

A moment of quiet falls between them, broken only by the sounds of their joint breathing and the scratching of tiny rodent feet further along the alley. Derek hovers behind in, his breaths deep and even, not quite close enough to touch, and it has been long enough that Stiles is considering struggling when the hand at his back raises to meet the back of his neck. It's hot and brief, before it isn't, molding into the shape of a palm that encloses his nape in a firm grip.  
  
"You’re going to stay with me at the loft. You’re not leaving until you _have this under control_ , and I’m confident you won't rip out the throat of the first person you see."  
  
Derek's voice is quiet, the growl beneath it more subdued than before, although still a definite presence within his words. The _'idiot'_ is unspoken - but he seems calmer, if anything, which works to ease Stiles' agitated nerves. As evolutionarily advantageous his fight or flight instinct was, it had a time and place, and neither of those options would do him any good right now. Instead Stiles takes what he can from Derek's calm to find the strength to pull himself together. His throat is dry, but when he tries to speak, he is gratified to find he can actually manage it this time.  
  
"I- _wasn't_ planning on meeting anyone. Just wanted to, you know... take a walk. Get some fresh air to cool down."

Derek breathes out in a slow rush of air against his neck, but whether it is a resigned sigh, or an _I believe you, Stiles,_ or even a suppressed snort - Stiles honestly can’t tell. He can't get a good view of Derek from this angle either, and his nose isn’t helping him at _all._ How werewolves managed to read anything more within a scent than the obvious _sweat_ and _I wear leather all the time_ , Stiles has no idea.

"Well, if you're feeling sufficiently 'cool', you might want to know that I've contacted your family."

That gives him a start, causing him to squirm against Derek's grip in an attempt to twist his head back. The effect those words have on him are immeasurable, releasing the tension he hadn't even noticed he was carrying within his shoulders and neck, and easing the itching sensation beneath his skin. Derek's words could mean either of them - his dad, or Scott - but for all sakes and purposes, it didn't matter, as long as _someone_  has contacted his dad. He's been put through enough hell without Stiles' stupidity forcing him through even more.

After another moment, Derek’s grip relaxes against the back of his neck, settling more comfortably within the curve of his shirt collar. It's loose enough that Stiles can finally turn around to face Derek without choking himself, and he does just that, blinking as he realises just how close they actually are, before he drags his eyes away from the prominent bridge of Derek's nose to meet his gaze.

In case the question in his stare isn't clear at this distance, he prompts him with a short: " _and?_ "

"Scott needs to keep his distance, but he will be bringing some clothes tomorrow. You'll have permission to go home when you're ready."  
  
It's embarrassingly fast how quickly Stiles mood changes, his face twisting into a frown. "Wait, what-"  
  
"Get in the car."  
  
"This can't be non-negotiable."  
  
" _Get. In. The. Car._ You won’t like what I do to you when I put you in there _myself_."  
  
From experience, Stiles knows that Derek is not averse to splitting a few hairs or cracking a couple bones to get what he wants, and he decides to forgo the extra second of hesitation before following his directions. Stiles has pushed the limits of their acquaintance enough for one lifetime, let alone one night, and he isn't stupid enough to further test Derek's patience.

Stiles barely has the time to shut his door before they are off, tires screeching in complaint at the abuse, barreling through the night towards Derek’s apartment.

\---

Later on, Derek doesn’t mention the window, although his spine noticeably stiffens whenever he catches sight of the damage.

They don’t talk about their fight, either.  
  
In fact, they don’t talk at all, Derek foregoing words in favour of action as he drags Stiles back to the bed, shoving him under his ratty sheets and pushing at him until he gets the idea to _move to the side,_ before he clambers in behind him. They are close enough that Stiles can feel his body heat, but they don't quite touch, which is starting to become a recurring theme in these types of meetings. He doesn't say a word, turning his back on Stiles once he has made sure Stiles is settled - or, rather, has been successfully pinioned between Derek and the wall.

Stiles will not be breaking out of here again any time soon.

Stiles is exhausted enough from the change that for once, he can't even find the energy to complain. It's easier, not to, and it doesn't take long before he is on the cusp of sleep, lost somewhere between the highway and a rotten tree stump, when he feels Derek shift behind him. One minute there's cold sheets behind him, the next a warm presence at his back, and a hand settles on the nape of his neck, the heat from the touch chasing away the last of his demons. It's nice, and it eases away the residual stress until he's enjoying the best night sleep he's had in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /bad joke about how every chapter needs to end with the main character losing consciousness.
> 
> I'm not sure where this is going. It just kind of... _is_. Bear with me. The next chapter will be called 'Pack'.


	5. Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Are_ you asking?”
> 
> Derek grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing, and while it seems as if the movement pains him, he inclines his head in a rough nod, lips tightening into an irritated scowl. But he’s not snapped and threatened violence - he hasn’t even given Stiles his customary eye roll. Yet. “Yes.”
> 
> “Huh. That’s a surprising turn for you.”
> 
> “I’m just doing my best to save the apartment from further structural damage, as it seems we’ll both be here for a while.” He glances significantly at the windows and alright, he may have a point. Stiles may share partial responsibility for that.

Stiles wakes up to the sound of feet pounding against concrete; angry, thunderous footsteps that stop abruptly outside of the barrier that separates the intruder from the room, and his first thought is that something is missing _._

The footsteps start again, softer this time, pacing back and forth in a steady rhythm along the hallway just outside, and the thought is chased from his mind by a flood of anxiety as he realizes that he has no idea where Derek is. The space beside him is cold, and it's still too early for Stiles to be able to tell apart the scents of 'recently Derek' and 'Derek of five hours ago' - and this isn't good. Not good at all.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles works to slow his breathing, following the steps of calming exercises he hasn’t used in years to concentrate and focus on his other senses, listening carefully to the sounds of the apartment.

It’s with great relief that Stiles makes out the sound of Derek’s breathing across the room; he can even hear his heartbeat if he really focuses, and the way Derek is utterly unfazed by the disruption to the quiet of the otherwise empty apartment complex relaxes some of the tension that had begun twisting within Stiles when he awoke, setting his teeth on edge and making his fingers itch. There is definitely someone out there, pacing directly outside the door to Derek’s apartment, someone who’s not quite as tall as Stiles, strides shorter, and yet soft – possibly a wolf, possibly Lydia at her most quiet --

“Stiles.”

Stiles blinks, coming abruptly back to hinself by the sound of Derek’s voice in the otherwise quiet apartment. The steps outside falter at the interruption, halting briefly before they continue, getting louder on the approach. Stiles pushes himself up on his arms, glancing over to where Derek is standing just before the sliding door, brows furrowed as his arms cross tightly in a defensive position over his chest, and he gestures sharply with his chin in the direction of the hall.

“Would you do us both a favor and listen to me when I ask you to stay put, and only come over when I give you the okay?”

Stiles blinks, abruptly surprised by the question – the fact that there _was_ a question.

“ _Are_ you asking?”

Derek grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing, and while it seems as if the movement pains him, he inclines his head in a rough nod, lips tightening into an irritated scowl. But he’s not snapped and threatened violence - he hasn’t even given Stiles his customary eye roll. Yet. “Yes.”

“Huh. That’s a surprising turn for you.”

“I’m just doing my best to save the apartment from further structural damage, as it seems we’ll both be here for a while.” He glances significantly at the windows and alright, he may have a point. Stiles may share partial responsibility for that.

“Who’s out there?”

Derek hesitates, glancing at the door for a long moment before he seems to come to a decision.

“It’s Scott.”

“Then – what are you waiting for? What’s wrong?”

Now that Stiles _knows_ it’s Scott, he can’t see why he hadn’t identified him before – there’s the quieter sound of his steps from where he walks on the balls of his feet, a habit he’s kept up from when he was an asthmatic kid and thought the lighter steps would reduce the strain on his lungs and throat – although it never worked, and Stiles had never had any idea how he thought it could. It’s Scott, through and through, and Stiles has never been more relieved to hear from him.

What he doesn’t get is Derek’s reluctance, his gaze skittering between the hallway and where Stiles has perched on the bed, as if he’s trying to figure out a way to minimise the contact between Stiles and his best friend. As if _that_ was going to work.

“This is – the situation is different now. Scott and I are both alphas, forming different packs. This causes instinctual reactions - _conflicts_ \- that Scott won’t have faced before. We don’t know how he will react, or what exactly will happen when I open the door.” His eyes flash, a hint of the command from last night returning, an impossible pressure that presses down on him, impressing the need to obey. “So I need you to stay back.”

"...what? But-"

“Please, Stiles. Just... Please."

It's the first - and probably only - time Stiles will ever hear Derek ask him, his voice tinged with a quiet desperation, and it shuts Stiles up faster than a slap to the face. Stiles looks at Derek - really _looks_ at him -- and he can see the differences from the Derek they had known previously, clear as day. He's bruised with the hallmarks of stress, a dozen or so sleepless nights, and he looks tired and wan, worn to the point of breaking. His eyes make fleeting contact with Stiles before flickering away, his jaw setting into a firm line.

"This wasn’t – this shouldn’t have happened. I’d given up the alpha power. It wasn’t supposed to come back.”

His voice trails off into silence, Derek’s eyes are distant from where they are trained on the floor before a crash echoes through the room, the rebound of a fist hitting metal, and they flicker back to Stiles, Derek’s expression setting, posture straightening with resolve and command.

“Stay there. Don’t move until I give the go-ahead.” He turns back to face the door, the muscles of his shoulders tensing as he grips the handle, preparing to flip the lock. He pauses, and the ‘please’ is added so softly, that when Derek doesn’t look back, doesn’t do anything to indicate that he’d actually been talking to Stiles, Stiles thinks he may have imagined it.

A sinking feeling of unease settles in Stiles’ stomach, but he drops his hands to the mattress, anchoring himself to the material.

“I’ll wait.”

“On three.”

He glances over his shoulder, and at Stiles’ nod, flips the lock, bracing his arms against the door.

“One. Two. Thre-”

Before he can finish the countdown, the door wrenches to the side, breaking his grip as it slams open in a screech of tortured metal. The next five seconds are almost too fast for Stiles to track, were-wolfery and all.

\--

When Derek opens the door, Stiles barely has the time to register tan skin and a flash of curled brown hair before a snarl is ripping through the air and clawed hands clasp around Derek’s throat.

Derek manages a choked off “Scott-” before Scott’s grip tightens around his throat, and his air-way is cut off with a strangled sound, Scott lifting Derek by the throat until the toes of his shoes barely brush the floor.

Stiles can’t move; he’s been struck by a sudden paralysis, every muscle in his body rigid. Derek. Derek is-

“ _He was a part of_ _my pack_ , _Derek._ ”

Stiles is across the room before he even recognizes that he is moving, throwing himself forward with his teeth bared, his left-hook already swinging.

There’s an abrupt, ear-splitting howl as his fist connects with brutal blunt trauma, his claws tucked safely against his palm, sending his target scraping along the floor as Derek drops to the floor, sucking in a lungful of air in a painful rasp.

Scott snarls from where he’s raised himself up into a crouch, his shape trembling as his eyes deepen to a darker crimson, his panting breaths sound almost animalistic as his gaze flickers between Stiles and Derek.

“You were _my_ _pack_.”

“ _Scott.”_ Derek’s voice is a hoarse cough, barely audible - a glance tells Stiles that Scott’s claws have just undone all the healing Derek’s vocal chords had managed the day before. “Scott, you have to _focus.”_

Scott snarls in Derek’s direction, his face rippling as it takes on the beta-change, then something more, something Stiles has never seen before and sends a feeling like a trickle of ice down his back. His ragged breaths get deeper, his claws extending, growing longer than Stiles has ever seen them, and Derek’s form shudders in return, softening around the edges as he takes on aspects of the change. The tone of the growl changes, growing deeper, _stronger_ ; discordant notes pulling at his emotions, welling up a pool of sudden, ferocious anger that bubbles rapidly to the surface. His self-control is wavering even as Derek moves in front of him, placing himself bodily between the newly turned beta and his best friend.

‘ _Scott, you need to-_ “

He doesn’t get the chance to finish as Scott takes that moment to launch himself forward, slashing at Derek’s abdomen as his teeth make a beeline for his throat, and following newly discovered instincts, Stiles reaches forward to grab Derek’s shirt, yanking him backwards as he puts himself in front of the attack.

He has enough time to register the flash of recognition on his best friends face just before the bite of his claws settle deep into the flesh of Stiles’ abdomen, and the world around him whites out in the sudden onslaught of pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story needs some serious reworking, but I found this last chapter on my hard drive, and I thought it deserved posting!

**Author's Note:**

> [teen wolf blog](http://abetaperspective.tumblr.com/) \- or find me at my main tumblr. ;D
> 
> This is on a semi-hiatus until the first few chapters get reworked. Expect sporadic updates!


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